by Hazel Parker
“I don’t know. We just found him.”
“We?” Jerry said.
I turned around to look into the glass pane of the door. Kaylen was bent over the bed crying. I could tell from the wet spot pooled on the sheet. Her face was a mask of concern, watching Evan’s face for something, anything, and I felt like someone punched me in the chest. I know that face. I’ve seen it before. It was the way my mother looked at my dad when he was in the hospital. The way Lila looked at Harrison. The way Kaylen was looking at Evan was like he was the sole center of her galaxy and if he died, she would spiral out of orbit.
She’s in love with him.
I don’t know why it was came like some grand realization. I should have seen it before.
Why didn’t I see it coming?
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. She could see him without seeing us. She saw him as someone separate—as Evan, not the other twin. He deserved a woman like her and I was just a nuisance, standing in the way.
“Yeah, we. Kaylen is in there right now.”
“Does she work here? She’s in scrubs.” Luke asked naively. He hadn’t been able to make it to the hospital when Harrison was first hit.
“Yeah. She does.”
“Look, I don’t want no drama shit, Ethan. I swear, your brother is barely holding on and I can barely handle this and the IRS on our ass. I don’t have time for some argument over a broad.”
I couldn’t keep myself from growling. I didn’t like him calling Kaylen any names.
“Don’t say that,” I growled under my breath. “There will be no fighting. She’s his. Shit’s cleared up. Ain’t no problem.”
“Good,” he said with a nod before walking away.
Tonight there’d be a meeting. This I knew for certain. I’d call it my damn self. The Skulls were going to get what they had coming. Nobody touched my brother except me, and to hurt him this way when he’d done nothing wrong was the highest offense. Mark my words. They messed with the wrong fucking twin.
*****
THE END
Sweet Revenge
Chapter 1
Ethan
“What the fuck is that behind your ear?” I asked with rising panic that the world was about to come crashing down around me. I didn’t care that I was standing naked with my dick still hard.
“What’s what?” she asked, standing to look in my dresser mirror.
I watched her turn her head and bend her ear back until she could see what I was stressing about. Her eyes grew large and when they met mine in the reflection of the mirror, she knew what the fuck it was. I knew what the fuck it was too.
It was a death wish.
It was mutiny and betrayal.
But I still wanted her to say it out loud.
Calm passed over me as I realized there was nothing more to be done. “Did you hear me, Molly? I asked you a fucking question.” I didn’t yell. I just stood there, as naked emotionally as I was physically.
She stood stock-still, frozen, like if she didn’t move, time would stand still.
“Say something!”
My voice startled her and she flinched before nervously tucking her hair behind her ears. “It’s a tattoo.”
So she was willing to play dumb. I already knew what it was. I had enough ink to know it when I saw it. No. She wasn’t getting off that easy. I wanted to hear her say it. She was bold enough to be in my life, in my bed with that shit on her body, so she needed to be bold enough to tell the truth.
“Of what?”
“A skull,” she said as if barely breathing.
That’s right. She had a skull tatted on her – like a brand. Like a hidden bomb, ticking and waiting to detonate when I found it. Well, I’d found it and everything I thought we had was about to be blown to smithereens. No, scratch that: that shit was already gone.
One Month Before
Should I be doing this?
Probably not.
That’s never stopped me before.
I looked back to the man I considered a father. Gus turned to look at me as if he could feel my gaze.
“You ready to do this?” he asked.
“Sure. This ain’t my first rodeo. It won’t be my last.”
Alcohol is a liberator; you see people at their core; it removes the conscious controls that people have as social self-control mechanisms for managing their personalities and social behaviors in society.
When people are drunk, you can see them at their best and their worst. At their best, they are happy, looking for love. They meet somebody, have a tryst, end up in a relationship, and get married. Sometimes they create a friendship or find a common interest with somebody they meet. Or spill all their secrets, happy to have a reason to let all they’d been hiding out. At their worst, drunks are selfish, belligerent, mean-spirited, suicidal, and chemically-unbalanced. Alcohol makes everything worse – sadness, shame, rage, and any other emotion you can think of. I liked that because I was about to take full advantage of it.
We entered the bar ten deep, though five of us went one to the left while the other group went to the right. We wore all black without our cuts, but I would make sure there was no doubt of where this beating was coming from. Charming was a well-known, neutral bar. Bikers drank there and could coexist without a fight, or so it was said. Not that night, though. That night, we wore no emblems, so who’s to say it was a biker fight? The bar was full of women in short skirts, and shirts giving way to so much cleavage they could be arrested for public indecency. We sat and drank for a moment, pretending we weren’t together. Then, as planned, Luke broke off to go to the table beside the one where Casper and his crew sat.
A group of older gentlemen sat with young blondes on their laps.
“Hey,” Luke said, rubbing his head.
“Can I help you?” asked the bearded man, the most senior of the group.
“No, sir. I just don’t know how you can stand it.”
“Stand what?” Bearded Man asked.
“Well, if someone said that about my daughter—”
“Somebody talking about my Stacey?” he said, gripping the handle of his beer bottle.
“Is that you, miss?” Luke said to the blonde Bearded Man insinuated was his daughter.
“Yeah,” she said before she blew a bubble, popping it loudly. “What they say?”
“Well, I don’t say those kinds of things aloud about ladies,” Luke said as if he were embarrassed.
“What did he say?” the man with the huge beer belly said, sitting up straighter.
Luke huffed for effect. “He said, she’s got a pretty face but could benefit from a little bit more in the back. He offered to bang her a few times to help her along if she can’t get the money for a little plastic surgery.”
“What?” Bearded Man asked, standing in an outrage, all his friends following suit.
“Who said it?” Beer Belly asked, standing last and peering across the room like his perpetrator would somehow come into view. “Point him out.”
“Guy in the blue shirt,” Luke said, nodding to me, which was the signal.
Jason waited until Bearded Man came over and, before he could speak, Jason slugged him. Warren, on the other hand, punched Beer Belly, which set off a frenzy of flying fists.
In a bar fight, everybody was a potential victim. Everybody was also a potential combatant. You could never tell who was going to join a bar fight; people would throw a punch for no apparent reason, and that was why I chose that bar as my scene.
I made my way across the room and pulled Casper from the clutches of another man and punched him in the face. I was out to do as much damage as possible. My hand followed the other from his face to his stomach.
A sudden gush of pain jolted me as Casper kicked me, causing me to slide to the floor. I took him with me, using his body weight against him and, once on the floor, I rolled until I was sitting on his torso.
“You can thank the Bandits for this ass whooping,” I whispered as he struggled under me.
; His eyes widened before hardening and he fought back with much more vigor. “Motherfucker!”
I brought my fist to his nose, snapping it into a smattering mess of cartilage and blood. Casper acted as if he couldn’t feel it and threw his arm up. The bottom of his wrist caught my chin and my jaw closed too quickly, clipping my tongue. My mouth filled with the taste of blood.
I grabbed a chair and smashed it over him, causing his body to go limp. Seeing that he was too banged up to move but was conscious, I leaned down and whispered in his ear. “You’ve just been robbed.”
With my goal completed, I sat up and caught the eye of my partners. Each one signaled the other, and together we ran out the back.
I came. I saw. I conquered. I rode on my bike, in formation with the crew back to our headquarters. In total, the entire fight was a little under ten minutes. We couldn’t stay longer because the cops were coming. Once at HQ, we debriefed and a few brothers poured themselves some brew.
“Thanks, fellas.”
“No problem,” Evan said.
“You know we’ll always have your back, brother,” Luke said.
I looked around. Most of us were unscathed. Luke had a cut along his cheek. It was thin, like it came from glass. I had no face injuries, but several bruises were on the way from Casper’s rebuttal. Evan’s hair looked out of place, which was unusual. He always looked so in control and kempt. Gus had a slight limp, like someone might have kicked him in the leg, and Jason was wet. From the smell, I knew someone poured beer on him.
“Good job tonight, boys,” Gus said, sitting heavily in a chair.
Everyone looked tired but me; I still felt the rush of adrenaline. I wasn’t turning in for another few hours; the night was still so young.
“I’m out of here, guys,” I said, adjusting my cut.
“Where you going?” one of the prospects asked from behind the bar.
“To celebrate,” I said without turning around. “Good night.”
There weren’t too many places that played good music and had beautiful women. Oasis was one of the few places. With one look at the leather on my back, the bouncer let me in with a reduced fee. The music and moving bodies were like physical electricity. I melted into the crowd without trying, and though I wasn’t dancing, I could feel the energy sway through me. This was exactly where I needed to be. The music was loud and the beat was so heavy that I could feel it in my bones and in moments, I was sweaty despite the cold chill I had from riding my bike.
I skirted along the edge of the wall to get a better look at the people. The bar seemed to be the only place with good lighting.
“Let me get a Jack and coke,” I said, yelling over the bar. He moved quickly and, with glass in hand, I stood to the side, in the shadows, drinking. Plenty of women came by, some more subtle than others, asking for a dance or more. I don’t know why, but something held me back. I was waiting for something. Somebody was going to get under me tonight and I wasn’t sure who it was going to be, but I would know her when I saw her.
The strobe lights masked so many movements, the sway of bodies pausing in different moments against the lights. The music hit a crescendo and something to the left caught my eye. The strobe lights flashed and I saw ivory skin highlighted. Her brown, wavy hair was haloed by the lights. I started at her stilettoes and worked my way up to the small pieces of fabric she was wearing, barely covering the skin I wanted to lick. It was pretty packaging, ready for me to unwrap.
My cock stiffened, straining against my jeans as she swayed on the stool to the music. When our eyes finally connected, she smirked like she could hear every nasty thing running through my mind. I smiled back and made my way over to talk to her. By the way she was looking at me, I could tell she was thinking of doing the exact same things I wanted to do to her. Somebody was getting fucked tonight. Casper already got fucked up; now I was ready to fuck.
The crowd parted and I flowed with it to her. I was going to buy the lady a drink.
Chapter 2
Molly
You better dance tonight, too.
I huffed impatiently at my phone. Ashlyn was driving me up the wall with all her texts. First she harassed me when I got off work, making sure I was still going. She texted me every hour on the hour, interrupting any chance I had of a nap to make sure I was going. Then she texted about my outfit until I changed. Now she was checking my behavior once I got inside. Leave it to her to shame me into looking sluttier. I still couldn’t believe she got me to agree to go to a club. Alone at that.
“Go out,” she said. “Stop being so boring,” she said.
She said that often, but I liked boring – my childhood had been exciting enough.
“It’ll be fun,” she said, and yet there I was without her. I could have sworn her catching a cold meant I was getting out of jail. Not so. Instead, I was there, soldiering forward and alone.
I will. I texted back.
Don’t be a clam and hold up the wall either. Find a fine man to dance with… or take you home. Either option is good.
LOL. In your dreams.
Exactly. In my dreams. So why don’t you make them come true?
I don’t think so, chick. Your dream. My reality.
Ugh. You’re such a bore. You realize you’re 30. Not 80. Right?
Duh, girl. 80-year-old me would not have these tits.
Seriously. I went all out. I had on a white vest. It was sleeveless. The only thing holding it together was a small gold chain, just below the curve of my breasts. It was cut low, giving everyone a good view of my chest and stomach. I had to dig way in the back of my closet to find it. I hadn’t worn anything like it in a long time. But I still had the body for it.
Before, I had on a pair of wedges, a jean skirt, and a plain, V-neck shirt. My long, brown hair was pulled into a messy bun with fun wisps curling near my face. Because of the incessant texting, I snapped a picture for approval. I looked nice. Her scathing response was quick.
Change. NOW.
Why? I like it. It’s not too much.
If by not too much you mean boring, then hell yeah, bitch. It’s not too much. I know you have better clothes than that. Try again.
I’m not trying to dress up too much. I don’t want to call any attention to myself.
The phone rang in my hand and with a sigh and some regret, I answered. “Do you know what the purpose of going out is?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer.
“To get attention, girl! Change that outfit. Now. You know you’re barely five feet. Put on some real heels!”
“Hey! I’m five foot five.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, ignoring me. “I don’t care what you say. Change it. Your friend on her death bed demands it.”
I laughed out loud. “You have a cold, not even the flu. You’ll be back this week, so that’s not an overly strong argument.”
“Change,” she huffed.
“Why?” I whined like I was having an argument with my mom.
“Because you look like a teeny bopper who just got permission to go out and who doesn’t want her dad to get mad at her outfit.”
She had a kind of brutal honesty that tested most friendships, but I appreciated it. I always knew where I stood with her. I stared at myself in the mirror and turned to the side. “I do not. This says classy and sassy.”
“Is that what you think it says? Believe me sweetheart. It most certainly does not. It looks like the outfits moms wear when they go pick up their kids to show that they’ve still got it, but the only reason their hair is in a bun is because it’s a sticky matted mess and, underneath all the makeup, they’re exhausted. Are you a soccer mom? No. You’re not. It does not say sassy nor classy. I’m almost positive it says you didn’t even try. I bet that was the first outfit you put on! Wasn’t it?” she accused.
I wasn’t going to tell her she was right. I thought about what I would wear all day at the office and decided on this before I was even home.
She took my silence for
what it was – guilty admission.
“So help me God, Molly, if you don’t change, I will tell everyone the revolving door story.”
I gasped in horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me, bitch,” Ashlyn said.
And that was how I came to be in my ensemble, half-naked and catching the eye of every man with eyeballs in front of the club. I have to say, it was nice skipping the line though.
I’m going in now.
Have fun!
I smiled at the screen and moved to put it in my clutch, stopping only because it vibrated again.
And do everything I would do.
It buzzed again with a smirking emoji, then buzzed again.
And if you’re willing to play dense about that, I mean find someone to clean out the cobwebs in that kitty.
I could only shake my head as I laughed. The bouncer checked me and my clutch before opening the door. The cool air of the night was no competition for the damp air inside the club. It was dark, but full of strobe lights. The only stationary light was at the bar, so that’s where I went.
A man with slicked back hair stood behind the counter, flipping bottles in the air like a circus performer. I bet he called himself a mixologist instead of a bartender.
“What can I get you?” he yelled over the music.
“A margarita, please.”
“Coming right up,” he said, snatching a bottle of tequila from the counter and tossing it behind his back.
This place was much fancier than I thought it would be, but still equally up to my low standards. This wasn’t the city; this was Willow Springs, Arizona, small town and just like I remembered it to be. The only reason I was there was so none of my coworkers or cases saw me. Not that I was ashamed, because I deserved a night out like everybody else, but I worked hard to have respect in my profession. I wasn’t going to kill it by giving fuel to gossips. That was why I was an hour and thirty minutes away from Flagstaff, where I worked.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” he said, sliding me my drink.
I turned on the barstool that I’d managed to steal before another girl could take it and surveyed the club. It was full, packed to the brim with dancing bodies and had half naked women and hot men looking for something or someone to get into.
